Unexpected Reactions
by Amaya Ramiel
Summary: Sherlock's thoughtless actions cause some unexpected and unfortunate reactions from John. Also features Mycroft being annoying. K  for mentions of the war, but friendship-centric throughout.


Unexpected Reactions by AmayaRamiel

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, but a girl can dream, can't she? Lovely, lovely dreams.

A/N: I originally wanted this to be very h/c but the characters wouldn't do what I wanted them to do. Instead they insisted on being 'normal and natural'; at least that's what they said. In the end, I have to trust that the plot bunnies and the characters know better than me.

Also, I should make it clear that I do love Mycroft, so if it seems like I'm bashing his character, that wasn't my intent. My only defense is the bunnies made me do it. Hope you enjoy it ^_^. Please R & R.

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><p>As John closed the door and mounted the stairs he could hear the loud raised voices coming up from the flat. One of the voices, of course, was that of his exasperating <em>why-do-I-stay-oh-that's-right-cause-he's-so-bloody-brilliant<em> flatmate, while the other, John recognized, was that of the much more exasperating _who-would-have-thought-there-could-be-a-more-exasperating-man-than-Sherlock-Holmes_ brother of said flatmate.

John was tired; the clinic had been full to the brim with patients, loud and demanding, and throughout the entire day John had felt he was back in a combat zone. While it made him feel exhilarated, it also put him on edge, so that climbing the stairs he didn't feel like facing not one, but two Holmes bickering like teenage girls in the middle of their living room.

John was halfway up the stairs when the shot rang unexpected through the flat, and he was wrenched violently back into the desert sands of the battlefield.

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><p><em>Mycroft can be such an annoyance<em>, Sherlock thought as he paced back and forth between the couch and the kitchen door opposite his brother, who was standing by the window arguing, as loudly as Mycroft could argue, about his younger brother's vices/problems/inability to stop being a proverbial pain in the arse, or whatever the hell he was arguing this time. Sherlock couldn't care less.

Every once in a while his _dear_ older brother would deem it necessary to make an appearance rather than kidnap him, _or John lately_ Sherlock's mind added, in order to get him to take on a case, or simply to berate him for something he had done or failed to do. They had become used to this routine – Mycroft comes, Sherlock tells him to leave, Mycroft argues, Sherlock comments on his weight issues, Mycroft recriminates Sherlock for his drug use, for his lack of care, for his mistreatment of others, for the problems Mycroft has to fix on his behalf, Sherlock yells at Mycroft to do something incredibly creative with himself yet physically impossible, Mycroft plays the 'Mummy would be unhappy' card, Sherlock yells some more.

Why couldn't he simply leave him alone? He was solving cases, high profile cases at that. He had been off the drugs for months now, _thanks to John_ some might say, and he had been behaving close to the vicinity of socially acceptable parameters. He wondered briefly how long it would take Mycroft's agents burst into the flat if he suddenly decided to strangle the man.

"Sherlock would you put down that bloody thing!"

The younger man stopped scratching his temple with the gun he had been carelessly holding in his hand, and looked at the weapon as though he had just noticed it was there. Glancing back at his brother, Sherlock's eyes narrowed in a mocking glance.

"What Mycroft? Are you worried I'll blast my brains out? Or just worried about the cleanup afterwards?"

"You cannot continue in this reckless manner."

Their voices kept getting louder and louder, especially the detective's. No one could infuriate him like Mycroft; he could be so arrogant and condescending, treating him like some wayward child. The detective continued pacing back and forth, his gesticulations, gun included, increasing with every step. As such, Sherlock didn't hear the downstairs door open nor the steps on the stairs; meanwhile their argument kept getting faster and faster.

"Just take the case Sherlock!"

"It is a pointless case and you know it. You're wasting my time! Besides I'm not at your bloody beck and call!"

"It's a highly delicate operation."

"I don't care Mycroft!"

"Mummy would be so disappointed in you."

"Oh very good Mycroft, relying on that yet again. Getting sloppy aren't we?"

"Not as much as you, your last case, took longer than usual didn't it?"

"If your meddling government lackeys weren't so painfully incompetent!"

"That's your excuse isn't it? It's someone else's fault? It's 'someone else's lack of intelligence' that's getting in your way!"

"You should know."

"Sherlock, stop waving that thing around!"

"Shut up Mycroft!"

"When will you learn to grow up?"

Sherlock's anger finally bubbled up to the surface and in one swift and clean move he raised the gun in his hand and emptied it into the wall. Regardless of his anger, he wasn't stupid enough to aim it near his brother; it was simply meant as a release for his pent up unwanted emotions.

He wasn't expecting the sudden clatter on the stairs outside his door.

Sherlock and Mycroft remained frozen staring at each other through widened eyes, with Sherlock's arm still raised and facing the wall.

"What have you done Sherlock?" Mycroft was the first to overcome his shock, and sighing resignedly he looked between his younger brother and the door to the flat.

"Don't be stupid Mycroft; it wasn't even aimed in that direction." Sherlock threw the offending object across the couch and headed swiftly for the door. He knew that his brother knew that as well, but for some reason he felt the need to state it, as if to reassure himself that he couldn't possibly have shot John.

For that's who Sherlock knew he'd find as he swung the door inward and peered across the landing.

The doctor was crouched down against the stairs, almost on the landing in front of their door. He was completely still, more still than Sherlock can ever remember seeing him. His eyes were opened wide, pupils dilated as he stared blindly into a place only he could see, and his hands were clenched tightly, held firmly and tensely against his sides. The detective noticed the man was also barely breathing.

Approaching him carefully, Sherlock crouched down in front of John, who looked straight through him in an almost catatonic state. Although he wouldn't show it in front of his brother, Sherlock felt a stab of fear as he stared into John's unseeing eyes.

"Oh my, I would have thought Doctor Watson would have been better equipped to deal with bullet fire." Mycroft was now standing by the doorway, holding his umbrella lightly in his hand, and looking down on Sherlock and John with a look of mock surprise.

"Shut up Mycroft." Sherlock spat in a low voice before turning his attention to the doctor once more.

"John?" He asked carefully. "Can you hear me?"

"I simply meant that as a military man, I wouldn't have thought that the doctor would be so affected as to go into a near-catatonic state."

".Mycroft." Sherlock glared daggers at his brother.

"Come now Sherlock, even you must agree that this is unusual. I gave him more credit."

Focusing his attention on John, Sherlock nonetheless answered Mycroft in his usual fast paced manner, quickly ascertaining what must have happened.

"It's late, throughout our discussion I didn't realize how late it was, but it is. John is usually back much earlier than this. His hands are slightly red, not from cold, but from scrubbing, you can notice it even though they are clenched right now. That indicates many patients. That combined with the lateness indicates very busy day, probably with several sick patients, not merely patients having trivial checks.

"Now, to reply to your _comment_, 'jab', Sherlock wanted to say, "about John's character…

Sherlock quickly searched through his mental catalogue for all of the information he knew about John. Although he wouldn't admit it to Mycroft, he was also surprised that John should collapse into what was obviously post-traumatic war-related shock simply from Sherlock firing bullets at a wall. A man who craved danger like a drug, who had shot the psycho cabbie without hesitation, who had been strapped with who know how many pounds of explosives, who followed Sherlock constantly into alleyways and warehouses where criminals might shoot at them at any moment-

"Ah…" Sherlock's eyes widened in realization. Once more his mind went through the information. _John firing his gun, John going into dangerous situations,_ each time the doctor had been _expecting_ it.

"What?"

"Why didn't I see it sooner? Of course, it makes perfect sense!" Sherlock muttered to himself.

But this wasn't the time to bask in realizations. He had to pull John back, who knew what hell he was going through at the moment. Sherlock felt that flicker of fear… or was it sadness? of an emotion he could not identify.

"John." He repeated. Sherlock slowly and gently wrapped his hands over John's fists, gripping them lightly but firmly.

"Look at me John." Sherlock worked to unclench John's hands slowly as to not hurt him. Behind him be could feel Mycroft's gaze burrowing through the back of his head, but he decidedly ignored him, concentrating on the doctor.

"John, you're not in Afghanistan, you're in London, he whispered, "you're in your flat, you're safe. Come back." Sherlock didn't put much stock on emotions, and many had accused him of not caring about anyone but himself, so they would have been surprised at his slow and kind actions toward the doctor. But, as he had told John a few months back, Sherlock had only one friend, and even though he oftentimes mistreated said friend, he did appreciate and value him.

"Come on, look at me John. Who am I? Look at me?" Sherlock grasped the doctor's hands in his, forcing, willing John to focus on Sherlock instead of some forsaken Afghan desert.

Suddenly John drew in a sharp deep breath his eyes instantly focusing on the detective in front of him, and flinching back momentarily at the closeness.

"Sherlock!" He exclaimed, his breath coming in rapid sets as though he had just run a marathon. "What…?" John looked around him in surprise, noticing for the first time that he was sitting on the top step of their long staircase.

"What the hell happened?"

Sherlock on his part had been immensely relieved the moment John snapped back to the present and recognized him, but now, as his mind quickly provided the answer to John's question, he was loath to admit it had all been his fault.

Mycroft however, was under no such compulsion.

"It seems you suffered a PTSD flashback brought on by my brother's thoughtless actions. Indeed, perhaps Sherlock will now learn to stop waving and shooting his gun around like a toy."

John looked at Sherlock sharply, questioning the veracity of Mycroft's statement, and Sherlock's eyes confirmed it for him.

Mycroft expected the doctor to punch Sherlock, or at least yell at him, but John simply sighed and rested his head against the wall. "How embarrassing."

"Yes."

"Sherlock!" was Mycroft's scolding response.

But John simply closed his eyes and chuckled lightly to himself before putting a hand against the banister and slowly uncurling himself. Several of his joints voiced their protest at the treatment, but John simply started to make his way toward the door. He paused though, to look at Sherlock, who, while not entirely repentant, did look mildly sorry.

Both men stared at each other for a beat, before John shook his head slightly.

"Bit not good", he said, patting Sherlock once on the shoulder, which the other replied with a small nod. Mycroft almost rolled his eyes. _Why should he expect the other one to be any better?_

John made his way past the elder Holmes and made a beeline for the couch, letting himself fall backwards onto it. The Holmes brothers followed behind, Sherlock a bit more quietly than usual. _Maybe he does feel sorry_ thought John, though whether it was for the shots or his lack of tact, he wasn't sure.

"Do you want tea?"

John's eyes almost bulged out of his head as the question sunk in.

"Sherlock, its fine. Don't worry ok."

Sherlock sat down on his chair, seemingly accepting John's statement.

Mycroft on his part kept on glancing from one to the other with an expression of bafflement on his face.

"Really doctor, you may be intellectually inferior, or maybe because of it, I would have thought you would be enraged with Sherlock right now."

"Oh, I am upset with him-, by the way, Sherlock, no more firing in the flat, I've told you several times, now you've just lost your rights to the gun, ok, -but what good would that do?" John said calmly looking at Mycroft, and then looked pointedly at Sherlock until the younger man nodded in agreement again.

"Besides, I'm more than a little surprised myself at my own… reaction. That's never happened before."

"Ah, I have a theory about that, but perhaps it would be more constructive if you told us what happened yourself."

"Why am I not surprised that you have a theory?" John said resignedly, bringing a hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose momentarily. He looked back at Sherlock and saw, amazingly, an apology reflected in his eyes. _I like your theories, Sherlock, I'm not criticizing_. He knew the message was conveyed. The elder Holmes, on his part, watched the exchange and wondered, not for the first time, whether having John Watson around was not simply another way of enabling his younger brother's sociopathic behaviors. On the other hand, Sherlock never apologized for anything, so maybe the doctor was going something good after all.

"Well, I don't know, it was strange. I arrived and was coming up the stairs. I could hear the two of you fighting-

"We weren't fighting." – came the two responses

"-fighting, John repeated, "from outside. Seriously, it's a marvel people on the street didn't pull out chairs and sit in to listen to the free show."

Sherlock's lip twitched; Mycroft huffed.

"I was half-way up the stairs when suddenly I was… back there, in the desert. I suppose what happened is that you – here he looked pointedly at Sherlock once more, but by now Sherlock merely shrugged halfheartedly apparently satisfied that John wasn't all that angry with him, –"were doing your target practice again. At least I hope you weren't shooting at Mycroft this time… although I wouldn't blame you if you did." John and Sherlock both smiled slightly at that, while the insulted man gapped uncharacteristically like a fish for an instant before regaining his composure.

"My brother may entertain visions of my demise on a daily basis, but he lacks the guts to follow it through himself. He knows there would be countless consequences if he were to try, most of which are quite unpleasant, at best."

Sherlock's lip twitched again, and John stifled a snort that threatened to escape, but they refused to look at one another lest they laugh in Mycroft's face. Mycroft sighed and shook his head, "Pray continue your account, doctor; some of us have important engagements."

John didn't doubt that, but seriously failed to care, and while he was certain Mycroft's threats were very real, after months of repeated use, they had become absolutely hilarious. However, he was interested in unraveling the mystery behind his unexpected reaction, so he continued retelling his side of the events.

"Well that's it; it felt like I was in the middle of the desert. There were troops around me, we were running back and forth, it was as though I'd never left. Bullets flying everywhere, sand, blood, people dying, being shot at. Everything."

"Do you often experience fears of being back in action?"

John looked at Mycroft in disbelief.

"I'm not afraid of it."

"I meant no disrespect, doctor. I merely wondered whether it makes you anxious or worried."

"Mycroft, I would have thought you'd know more about John by now, or that you would have at least invested more time than just reading his file. John craves danger, despite all the… unpleasant images attached to it."

Mycroft ignored his brother's commentary for the moment, continuing his questions to John.

"Yet your reaction in the hallway was that of a person in shock. Of a person deathly afraid. There's nothing wrong with admitting it John, especially after all you've seen. And if you're worried about your pride, well, you shouldn't worry. It's perfectly natural for a person of your-

"A person of my 'what' Mycroft? My average intelligence? I'm nothing more than a 'common' man, and therefore I shouldn't feel bad I can't compartmentalize my fears like you would? Don't give me that crap, I get enough of that from him, but at least I know he doesn't mean it – John said pointing at the other person in the room, - "I would have expected a little better from you. And anyways, I have no problems admitting my fears, but I'm telling you this isn't one of them."

"Told you" Sherlock intersected smugly.

That said, John decided to ignore Mycroft for the rest of the evening. Looking at Sherlock, he asked,

"So why would I have that reaction? I've fired my gun since I've been back, I've seen you, and stopped you, from firing in the flat, we've been fired at several times in cases, not that I enjoy that, mind you – Sherlock raised an eyebrow, - "entirely, granted. Even the dreams have always been more of an annoyance than something to fear. So why here, why now?"

"Simple, John."

"Oh really, well enlighten us mortals."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

There was a momentary silence in which John rolled his eyes again. "Don't, just don't. Just go on with your theory." John had had too many conversations with the detective that degenerated into 'you said to shut up-that's not what I meant-well you should really say what you mean properly-shut up Sherlock' cycles, and he knew to nip it in the bud before they started.

The merriment was obvious in Sherlock's eyes however, as he shared his thoughts with John.

"Expectancy."

"Excuse me?"

"Expectancy, John! It makes perfect sense. Think about it, all those times, you said so yourself, shooting, being shot at, running around carrying explosives, being shot at some more. You expected them every time."

"I expected being shot at?"

"Yes! You considered the possibility in your brain, or at least some part of your brain did." John wasn't sure whether that was an insult or not, so he let it lie.

"Ok…"

"You said in your flashback you were in the middle of the battlefield, correct?"

"Yeah?" Confusion still colored the doctor's features.

"But were you doing the attacking? Were you fighting a specific enemy? How did it start?"

John frowned momentarily, and attained a far-off look as he went through his already fading memories.

"We were in the desert… giving aid to a group of injured soldiers."

"But you said bullets flying around." Mycroft interceded; he had realized what Sherlock was indicating.

"Yes…" John's eyes got wider as realization also hit him.

"That's when you got shot, wasn't it? The bullet, and the subsequent skirmish, came completely out of nowhere." Sherlock spread his hands to the sides, like a magician showing off the conclusion of his trick.

"Unexpected." John muttered.

Sherlock could see the understanding in John's eyes; as a medical man he would be able to piece it all together now. "Simple reflex memory. You have been shot at several times after, but not under the similarly unexpected circumstances.

"But Sherlock, wouldn't John be trained to respond to unexpected enemy fire?"

"I am right here, Mycroft!"

"He is- Sherlock continued effectively ignoring John as well, "-but there is no enemy here, no desert, and no army. His mind therefore provided it for him. It plucked out the last time John was in a similar event; it was just unfortunate that that last event happened to be the strongest memory too."

"Fascinating." Mycroft's tone of voice left John wondering whether he was truly interested or simply being polite, or as polite as a Holmes could be. Mycroft rose from his chair, umbrella in hand. "Well, as interesting as this has been, I must depart now."

"Close to your first dinner time, isn't it?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

Glaring at his brother, the older man continued, "I will send you the details about the case."

"You do that Mycroft; I will promptly delete them; have a nice day _brother_ _dear_."

Looking at John this time, "Do try to convince him to take it; it is a rather important matter."

John nodded thoughtfully, then said, "You know what Mycroft, I don't know if I like you much right now, so…" and he shrugged and smiled.

The elder Holmes stared at the other two people in the room and conceded to let them win this time. After all, sometimes you had to indulge the deluded. "Good day, gentlemen." And with that he turned around and marched out of their flat.

"Hmm, I almost wish you'd shot him."

"You know how much I dislike paperwork, John."

"Hmm." The doctor seemed deep in thought once more.

"What is it?"

"What? You're not going to guess?"

"I don't guess John." Sherlock said as though the very notion was distasteful.

"Nothing, it's just... it was very strange is all. It was very real."

"It was a real memory, and reality is merely an interpretation of our perceptions."

"I heard you." The statement was made softly, like an afterthought. It stunned Sherlock into silence.

"I was back there, and I couldn't even remember… anything after it. But I heard you."

A laden uncomfortable silence descended upon the room.

"Tea then?" Sherlock stood up suddenly, grasping for anything that would dispel the awkwardness.

"Yes, that would be lovely."

"Good" Sherlock then proceeded to pluck his violin from his desk, setting it comfortably atop his shoulder.

Shaking his head, John got up and headed for the kitchen to make tea.

"Can I have my gun back then?"

"No Sherlock." John called from the kitchen, restraining his exasperation with a barely disguised smile.

The rattling of cups and the whistle of a kettle boiling melded with the soft sounds of a violin, removing the traces of arguments and gunshots, and filling the flat with nothing but comforting familiar noises.

The End


End file.
